She didn’t draw a clean breath until she’d stepped out of the alley—and the instant she did, the shakes and dizziness vanished as if they’d never been.
She tried the ground-floor market first, moving past the displays of summer fruit and sleeves of flowers into the relative cool of the shop.
She walked to the counter where the woman sitting on a stool behind it greeted her with a wide smile. “Good afternoon. Can I help you find something?”
“NYPSD.” Eve badged her. “Do you know a woman, in her nineties, gray hair—long, probably worn in a bun, dark eyes, olive complexion, five feet four, about a hundred and twenty pounds? Weathered face. Shows its miles. Heavy East European accent. Might wear a cross and an amulet with a blue stone.”
“That sure sounds like Madam Szabo.” The woman’s smile faded. “Is she okay? She was just in this morning.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“In one of the weekly units above. On three, I think.”
“Do you know her full name?”
“Ah, it’s Gizi, Gizi Szabo. She’s from Hungary. Is she in trouble?”
“She was attacked and killed this afternoon.”
“Oh my God. Oh no. Wait.” She pushed up, opened a door to what looked to be a tiny office/storeroom. “Zach. Zach, come out here. Somebody killed Madam Szabo.”
“What are you talking about?” The man who stepped out wore an expression of annoyance along with a short-sleeved, collared shirt and knee shorts. “She’s fine. We just saw her this morning.”
“This is the police.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide.”
Annoyance dropped away into quick concern. “What the hell happened? Did somebody break into her place?”
“I’d like to check her unit, if you know the number. And I’ll need your names.”
“Karrie and Zach Morgenstern,” the woman told her. “This is our place. Oh, Zach.” Karrie curled a hand around his arm. “She stopped in here almost every day since she came.”
“How long is that?”
“About a month maybe. She came to find her great-granddaughter. This is terrible; I can hardly take it in. I really liked her. She had such interesting stories—and she told my fortune once. She’s—what is it, Zach?”
“Romany. A Gypsy. The real deal, too. She’s in four D, Lieutenant. I carried some stuff up for her a couple times. Man, this is crap, you know that? Just crap. She was a sweetheart. Do you want me to take you up?”
“No, I’ll find it. The alley between the buildings. This building uses that recycler?”
“Yeah. Damn thing’s been broken for nearly a week, and we can’t get them to come and . . . ” Zach trailed off. “Is that where she was killed? In the alley? You mean we were right in here when . . . ”
“Nothing you could’ve done. Is there anyone you know who gave her any trouble? Anyone who’d want to cause her harm?”
“I really don’t.” Zach looked at Karrie, got a shake of the head. “She was nice. Colorful. Did some fortune-telling out of her place.”
“You said she was here to look for her great-granddaughter.”
“Yes.” Karrie sniffled, blinked at tears. “God, it’s really hitting me. She came over—the granddaughter—about a year ago. She didn’t live far from here, and she came in a couple times. That’s why Madam rented the place upstairs. Anyway, the granddaughter came to work, wanted to dance—on Broadway, like they all do, you know? Then about three months ago her family stopped hearing from her, couldn’t reach her. And the place she worked waitressing said how she just stopped showing up. They contacted the police, but the cops didn’t do much, I guess . . . Sorry.”
“No need. Do you know the granddaughter’s name?”
“Sure. Madam Szabo talked to everybody about her, put out flyers.” Karrie continued as she reached under the counter, “She worked at Goulash—Hungarian restaurant a block west. We hand out flyers for her. You can have this. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I think that’s what her name means.”
“Beata,” Eve murmured, and felt as if her heart cracked in her chest. Such grief, such sorrow it almost took her to her knees as she studied the photo on the flyer.
The face that had been the light in the black.